He followed with reluctance and a smile at his own folly. She was standing on the hill-crest, one hand shading her eyes, as if she looked for some one to arrive.
"Does he come, Miss Bingham?" asked Blake.
She turned with a fury that died away and left her helpless. There was derision, heart-ache, pity, in Blake's mobile face.
"Is all forgot, then, Mr. Blake? There was a time in Knaresborough, at the ferry-steps, when you thought kindly of me."
"There was. I ask you for some explanation of the madness. To my shame, the memory came and weakened me years after—when I found myself in Oxford, to be precise, and heard the nightingales. Answer the riddle. How can a thing so slight and empty hinder a grown man?"
"You are bitter, unforgiving."
"Neither. I've ridden too many evil roads to remember bitterness. It is simply that I'm tired and filled with wonder. Tell me why Oxford and the nightingales opened an old wound afresh."
"It goes back to Eve's days, I think," murmured Miss Bingham.
Demureness, coquetry, the hint of tears and laughter in her eyes—all should have disarmed Blake.
"Ay, find other shoulders for the blame," he said impassively.